


A Wounded Man Is Ever Handsome

by indi_indecisive, Tarth



Category: Game of Thrones (Video Game 2014)
Genre: Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Major Character Injury, Male-Female Friendship, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Sleeping, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-05-29 07:03:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6364183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indi_indecisive/pseuds/indi_indecisive, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarth/pseuds/Tarth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“     a wounded man is never handsome.     ”</p><p>        “     a wounded man is ever handsome if he was handsome beforehand.          ”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This entire work of fiction comes from an active thread on Tumblr between me and oftarth.  
> Honestly, thank them for most of this fic, they write beautifully.

His lips tugged back into a scowl, face slicked with sweat from the heat of fighting a fever, yet still he stood to greet her. A scowl from the pains of loss and unrestrained anger, boiling to take revenge for what had been done. Finish what you started, regardless of wounds and the festering sickness. 

“If you think I’ll die, then you’re wrong. I won’t stop holding on.” He would not die– not yet.

“You are in no condition to stand,” she answers, “ and those who cannot stand are likely near their deaths.” but her voice is not condescending, nor is it angry, nor is it wary ( though always does a tint of it appear in her voice: an inflection more to the nature of her chord than any else ). He looks sick as a dog, but she would be a fool to say it. His resolve seems strong; likely it will strengthen still at the words. She needs the inspiration. 

“I do not think you’ll die —— but why is it that you hold on?”

What reason did he have to hold to live for a family that had turned their backs on him for the simple action of loving? Only to draw him back during war, and by his hands killing those he wanted nothing more to do than protect; so many lost that were more deserving of life than he. “Why?” She said that he need not stand, sick as a dog he knew it, but he did the opposite of her words and straightened further.

“For my family. For the lives that were taken because of my mistakes. I hold on for those reasons, but the greatest of all is spite. I hold on in spite of this bloody-fucking world.”

“You hope that by living, you might spite this world?” A unique reason if anyone even if family and the lives of others had preceded. ‘Tis not so honorable in her own view, but brave enough for any other. 

But he seems pained, even standing so tall as he is, even how proud he might seem. With a step, the woman warrior moves closer. She makes no other move but that —- something in her warns that she might spook him if she so much as moves an arm. “Fine —- live to spite this world and what is in it, but do not spite yourself on your illness. Sit down, don’t draw it further, elsewise you’ll die before long.”

Asher knew her to be in the right. The boy he had once been may have played the role of the fool, he would have stood even taller against his injuries and her word in utter disobedience. It was fortunate he was no longer that boy, and that her words to sit seemed the key, a sweet release from torment. As he did so he stared, not yet trusting of her presence or rather looking in awe to her; perhaps it was simply both. 

“Why did you come here?” Mouth parted, words fell quickly after taking a breath in relief of having to no longer strain himself. There was even something akin to a chuckle following his next words. “Not that I am displeased you are here. It is relieving to see someone more capable than I, injured or not.”

“I didn’t come here because of the trouble.” ‘Tis terribly blunt of her to start off with it, but she never lies, and never thinks to lie when the truth is so much simpler to say. With the truth, she has nothing to hide, nor does she have to keep a facade which may or may not even be true. Yet she dips her chin somewhat, a small move to soften the edges of her voice. “I came here looking for someone. You are not the one I’m looking for —- but your injuries say more than you ever shall. 

There may be a glint of amusement in her eye, if intended to be seen. She blinks it away a moment later, taking a step nearer, though not near enough to touch. “ You may be strong, but a wound like that will take it all from you if you are not careful. I’m sure you’re just as capable as I.”

Asher wondered who she could have been searching for, who would have gone this close to destruction and ruin; though no matter which way one seemed to turned those two were not far away. He appreciated the honesty, never one to enjoy being dragged along in the mud. “You sure I am not the one you seek?” he goaded with her, wounded and on the verge of slipping either in death or life, he refused to hold his tongue of passing thoughts. “A pretty boy and a handsome warrior–”

He let the sentence die, compliments could be reserved, and he doubted them to have been taken seriously for multiple reasons. He stared up at her, head tilted to the side; what did she plan on doing? “I will heed your words. Though, give me the benefit of your doubt and consider me more capable than you.”

She cannot resist that small lift of her brow, the way it curves over one eye. The other seems to frown at him in protest. In the shape he’s currently in, barely able to stand, certainly his request will go unheeded by Brienne —- for now, anyhow. “I feel safe enough to say that you are not more capable than me. Not in this moment. Perhaps if you rest and regain your strength, that statement might be truer."

Though he does seem capable enough, even in such a poor state. A man who can retain his sense of humor, little as she might react to it ( for she had hardly smiled, per usual ), is surely a man who will not die so easily. He could have a few more years on him: and he seems strong enough to grab those years at the first opportunity. “A wounded man is never handsome. How long have been ill?”

“A wounded man is ever handsome.” A protest to her, the word handsome fell from his tongue many times before the other entered, sometimes with hollowed meaning. Fingers danced along damage skin, tracing now the faint raise of a wound healed faster than the rest; he found the sentence before being spoken again but with added thought. “A wounded man is ever handsome if he was handsome beforehand.”

The question, a query he may not have held an answer for. Hours seemed to pass like minutes, and days of sickness and delusion had passed by quickly– yet agonizingly slow. There had been an effort to count them, to make note of how long he had been like this, a moment of clarity being ever present now. Like a storm, he hoped this not be the eye but the end of it. “A week, perhaps less. Hard to count when dreams are filled with terror of the deceased. Would you agree?”

She knows terror of the deceased like she knows the scars tracing the back of her hand, intent with the desire to remind her that there is no peace, had never been peace —- will never be peace. But she will bring justice, however difficult it might be, whatever trials through which she must go. She knows those terrible dreams, and remembers when Renly had rode alongside her in the whispering wood, his throat covered in blood, warm, gooey crimson leaking from the gash in his neck. She remembers that he was scowling —- and Renly Baratheon never scowled. He scowls in her nightmares for all the failures she has since achieved, for all the guilt shelved in her years. 

“A week, then.” She does give response to the true question, shakes her head in lieu of a verbal answer, mostly to shake the darkness from her mind. Poor man. She focuses on something else. “If you ever hope to be handsome again, man, as you so put it, you’ll let me help you. i’ll stay, just so long as you still take ill, but then i must go. I tell you truly when i say that i’m searching for someone. I cannot delay too long.” But neither can she let him suffer when she can help.

Why? The question had never seemed to hold a proper response– with him or anyone else. Why never held a precise answer; merely a word to fill the spaces, to soothe emotions. It never provided truth, merely facts. When asking why, and receiving an answer, one could never understand the true motive: still he often asked why. He looked up to her, the shake of her head he found a better answer than any words which she could have provided. He held his tongue, and does not ask the question of why. 

“When you go, can you go alone?” It was can instead of will– he cocked his head to the side, watching for the quirk of a brow or the twitch of lips, then casted his gaze to stare idly at her knees. He knew the strenuous life of being alone, finding himself currently locked in an emptiness room of sorrow and anger; he missed Beskha by his side. So she would be on her lonesome and searching for someone; who was she searching for, the question beginning to form on his lips. The words which followed were not intended. “–I am not asking to travel with you. It would be a mistake for both of us, I only ask that–.” he paused, taking a breath, though it was more of a wheeze. “Let me say this then, if you should require help in the future, you can call upon me.”


	2. Chapter 2

But the early question still hinges on the edge of her mind, and she catches herself watching him with eyes half-narrowed in some sort of suspicion, as though he might somehow know exactly what she’d meant when she hadn’t spoken. As though he knows everything about her, really, from just that one shake of the head —- all that defines her are those memories. They are all that she has, and most everything she will ever have, but she does not want them so easily known by everyone. By anyone.

Brienne blinks that away soon enough, the corner of her lip pulling up, just slightly —- just slightly, but noticeable enough, she thinks. She wants him to see it, wants him to know that she is grateful for what offer he has given her. Though she does not know if she’ll ever need it, ‘tis a thing not often given her, if at all. “Thank you. I’ve done fine on my own for this long. I see no reason why i should need any more help now.” But somewhere in her, she knows that she yearns for someone to accompany her. For what reason, she does not know, when she has learned to be by herself for so long. Then she hesitates, attempting to regain herself, realizing that she has slipped with her silence; she turns to the first thought in her head. “You’ll not be able to come to my assistance in the future if you don’t recover. Think of that, first.”

It was all he needed to feel that he had done some semblance of right, to feel that he would have a purpose beyond vengeance and spite. That he held a promise besides slaughter, a promise to help and to be counted on. He liked it, perhaps that is why his tired eyes recognized the slightest twitch of a smile. It was enough of a smile, enough to be a sign to hold onto. In the moment he thought he loved this warrior, he believed he wanted nothing more than to fight besides her and die justly; like he promised Beskha. He knew it was brash, barely did he understand the the difference between love and likeness, for he was a man of loving all and hating the rest. Finding however that he did not dismiss the thought, he smiled.

“You will need someone.” Speaking from experience, from memories he’d have liked to ignore. How many days he passed of which he believed he could function alone? How many years had passed where he refused to admit in needing anyone? “You think you can be alone, perhaps until death, but it is far from the truth.” Now what was Asher Forrester but a man who fought with such a ferocity, whose entire dance of fighting was suited better with another partner. “I will recover– I will always recover, but will you?”

What do I have to recover from? She opens her mouth, almost as though to voice that question to him. Then she thinks better of it, shuts her mouth again, realizes that the question entails more than she several personal aspects: things that she would rather not dealt into so publicly. She is well-versed in the ways of duels and other such battles. She can recover from the wounds that she receives, and she has received so many that she cannot go a single day without seeing at least one of them; when she showers, they play ‘cross her body, seem to slide down with the water, but when she blinks, they remain steadfast, off-color, reminding her that her body is not perfect. 

She can recover from those. She can recover from those. Words are wind; words are wind, too, and they are not so strong as scars. She can recover from those ( but the pain still lingers in her mind, pain from years ago, pain that she has never forgotten, pain that she has learned to remember ). She, suffice to say, watches him now with brows raised, with shock in her eyes. “Yes. Of course i can recover from… from being alone.” For some reason, she feels as though he might be speaking of that something else entirely. Her gaze drops. “And I am not sick; I don’t need to recover from that.”

“I didn’t say you were sick.” Retorting her assertion, he now sat with heavy query to the term sickness. Sickness was ever a word to be tossed about as carelessly as a rag doll. Used just as commonly by a baker in the streets and a lord in his sheets; it seemed always used in a single way. Constantly– sickness of the mind or sickness of the body? Many proclaimed that they were one in the same; the opposite end proclaimed that they were different. “I suppose the word recover implied it.” Still, what other word existed that could slip off the tips of common tongues to describe what loneliness was capable of doing? He decided no word could suffice. 

He dwelled on the raise of her brows and the shock living in her eyes. Recalling now a time when truths from another shocked him. When the cold winds which collecting nothing but salt water slapped against his face. They brought with them the brutal front of a reality he had helped shape, and left behind a mouth filled to the brim with imaginary cotton. Cold winds which slapped at him until they became hot as he, and turned his flesh to fire. The first of many true lessons of words striking nerves just as blades struck flesh. The slightest twitch of lips to that of a quizzical expression, he wondered what she had done. 

“You’re quite the beauty.” Words slow to his tongue as heavy lids fluttered closed, thinking to lie down and take his rest. Like fingers through honey his eyes open once more with the same sticky slowness, there was no time for sleeping. There was far too much to do, to speak of, to warn her of. “A beauty with a stubborn mind. Like me.” Snorting, fingers began folding what appeared to be a stray piece of ripped clothing. Distracting a mind from lulling to sleep. “You’re not sick, no. Carrying on without companionship? You won’t find the strength to recover from blade or harsh tongue.”

Beauty, beauty, beauty. They are the only words ‘pon which she can focus. Beauty, beauty —- FREAK. How many times has she been called beautiful, only for that word to be twisted and broken at at its spine? How many times has a man looked her straight in the face and told her of how beautiful she was? How many times have men tried to win her companionship, her soul, her affection, only for all of that to be torn away from her once the true meaning of those words, once the true object of their desires, made itself known? How many times has she reminded herself never again to trust that word —- to trust anyone with that word?

He does look quite the liar. Somewhere in her thoughts, her brow had furrowed, and her eyes at narrowed, just slightly. Yet she still watches his face, seeking a sign that he might not be lying. 'Tis a childish thing, that seeking, and the moment she realizes what she’s doing, she stops it cold in its track. Of course he is: that, or he’s unaware of what he’s saying. She wishes that she were inclined to think it were the latter, but there’s always that bite in the back of her mind, telling her that everyone always lies —- no one means it, even if they mean to say it. 

“I’ve found the strength to recover from it before. I have a duty to attend to. I cannot die yet, and i won’t.” Lids shut halfway, but she still peers at him, still watches him, as though almost lazily. Her mind works quickly, though, trying to patch the mistake of her silence. Damn him, for lying, for being sick, for being half-delusional. Perhaps he never would have said it if he hadn’t been so ill. “You need your rest.” That comes out harshly. The warrior cannot help it. She draws in a breath, then drops her eyes to her own hands, then pushes herself up at the edge of his bedding. “There’s no use staying awake. You’re tired —- you should sleep.” There. That’s softer.

You’re tired. 

She said the words like a mother, harsh to the child jumping on their bed, then softer for the obedient child. She told him to sleep but it seemed unfair that she would not be listening to the words of rest. Oh, sleep was ever intoxicating, the very idea of heavy lids fluttering shut to fall back into a sweetened embrace was wanted. Sickness demanded rest, but it was the movement closer along his bedding that caused a fleeting burst of waking. Reaching out to her, he wondered how he could sleep without another body besides him. NOT sexual, so many confused it as sexual, but it was just another beside him; reassuring. Touching her hand, flesh like his, and quickly he pulled away just as fire would to water. He had argued against milk of the poppy and now he argued with sleep. 

“Please–.” Like a child he whined to her, a wavering voice to display how truly alone and scared he felt. Recalling back, he needed Beskha and he feared for her; much of his family had been slaughtered, and she was a part of those living. Did Asher deserve death? Should he allow this warrior to run him through, finishing the job of that the Whitehill bastard? NO. Clearing his throat, he turned his head away, and could not bring himself to look at Brienne again. She must have hated him, his words had been bad. Like a dog she looked at him and like a dog she would treat him. Those thoughts seemed like those of a mind tainted, but he could not stop them from intruding. 

“Bring me milk and honey.” He believed he needed it now more than ever. The drink was for when night terrors plagued him, they had become more active, and those terrors slowly began to follow him into the waking world. What better time than to drink it now? “Two spoons of honey.” Their name comes out of the air, falling off a silver tongue easily. “Brienne, strength will falter. You and I will not die soon, but even we must rest. Even we will need.”

Her gaze had returned to him long before he’d turned his head, and she knows it, notices the way he does it not moments after that quiet little plead had left his mouth. And suddenly, she feels softer towards him —- if just a bit. She knows what it is like to be powerless, to be wounded with no way of controlling what else might happen ‘round her. She knows how it is to slip into fevered dream, only to be jolted by one quick voice, or one quick bump of a wagon, or one quick snort of a horse’s snout by her ear —- then to sink right back into restless sleep, dreams that give way to nightmares. Nightmares that make her want to cry.

She knows them more than ever. She wants to think that she knows how Asher feels as well, that she relates to him ( or that he relates to her ). And that carries away her prior thoughts, those accusations. She does not forget them —- Brienne the Beauty is a mocking title that she will never forgot, not for the rest of her life —- but neither does she acknowledge them anymore. Pursing her lips, she lets a little hum sit in her throat. Then, finally, does she look away from him, if only acknowledging his words with the slightest tap of her fingers on his shoulder. 

Then she stands, turning away without a word to fetch the milk and honey. It takes her little time to prepare it ( and mayhaps she adds another fourth spoon of honey: two and a fourth spoons of honey, to sweeten it a bit before it lulls him into sleep ). Once steady, she returns to the side of his bed, perching herself at the edge and holding the cup in her lap. “I know neither of us will die soon,” is what comes out of her mouth. 'Tis not harsh, the way she answers: it almost sounds guilty. Guilty that she would ever accuse a man as ill and helpless as he. “But I’ve long gone with much rest. You need it more than I do —- I’m not the one recovering. I don’t need anything.” Not the one in pain. The briefest of smiles flashes, mostly, through her eyes, before disappearing, and she offers his cup.


	3. Chapter 3

Nimble fingers wrapped around the offered cup like it where the handle of his hatchet, like it was his only definite source of safety. As if it was the only physical piece that would protect him and prevent the untimeliness of a death unwanted. Death was to be shunned away, pushed aside with little regard to the fact it was natural. Perhaps this was his punishment for refusing. In some fashion, Asher had always been punished for refusing; the past would show a child often yelled at for refusing to do what his father had wanted. Now death filled the role of a father and death did so mockingly, punishing him for refusing to succumb by making an uncouth attempt at filling the void of missing siblings and parents. Let death take his rivals, let death take his kin and loved ones, but by the Gods let death not try.

It was funny how he mentioned the Gods as often as he did. They were Gods which he did not and could never believe in. Even young he had found himself with an emptiness, a disbelief, when any Gods were mentioned. All prayers fell on lips that merely moved by habit and not by faith. As time passed, he had accepted that he could not fathom himself believing in any sort of deity. There could be God-Like but there could never be Gods. His own ideas had not made him shun away what others believed, in fact it was quite the opposite. The twitching of curiosity, itching in the back of his mind, like that of a child. He would listen to another’s Gods, he would hear of other religions foreign to his land or not, but he could not believe. Not in their existence; concepts were different than existence.

He brought the cup to his lips, letting the warm wisp of air brush against the upper parts of his face. Eyes fluttered shut, merely holding it there, just letting the familiarity of the smell calm him. No, No! A peaceful moment ruined by the reminder of nightmares before. Flashes of teeth. Blood, such a familiar smell, overpowering and strong because of him. Asher gave his head a little shake, clearing away those thoughts for another time. Drinking in small consecutive sips; one, two, three, four, five gulps and then he pulled the cup away. Breathing steadied, eyes opened and hues fell back to study Brienne as she spoke. Her words were warm, not harsh but laden with guilt. They were truthful and not harsh, no matter the guilt. He liked how she spoke, he loved it, and he thought to hang on every word.

“I have dealt with pain for a long time.” Sometimes he believed that is all he was capable of feeling, all that would ever make him human. Human. Bringing the cup to his lips again, taking a swig to finish it off as his eyelids were becoming heavier. Heavier with the loving thoughts of sleep, heavy was the feeling of guilt in his chest for not resting and letting them die. “I’m afraid that if I continue arguing with you about rest, it will lesser your opinion of me. Which would suck.” His chuckle was sickly sweet with sleep. “Regardless of how handsomely charming I am.” Pressing the now empty cup into her hands, his smile softened.

His strength was a secret. The ironwood trees sent ferocious roots beneath the ground, they grew up and they grew down. Like Asher, they grabbed the earth and bite the sky with violent teeth and never quit their anger.

“You are not handsomely charming.” But the tone of her voice is not the truthfulness that lurches constantly to most every words she says ( no —— every word she says, for she is not one to lie ). This tone is set in defiance, with the hopefulness that one might carry in a white lie, so small, so insignificant, yet still there, clinging lightly to her words. In her face, too, it rests, the way her brow furrows, the way she cannot but hide the twitching of her lips, as though her entire body attempts to betray her as she tries to lie, tries to tell an untruth. She is unpracticed, unprepared, and utterly ready for Asher to be claimed by sleep so that she no longer has to deal with what he might say about it —— for a few hours, at least. Mayhaps he’ll say nothing at all; in his poppy-laden stupor, he may not even remember the moment before the fall into dreamless sleep. T'would be more than that for which she could ever hope.

“I’ll keep watch. You can have your sleep in peace.” She pulls the cup to her, pushing herself from the mattress where he lays. Halfway up, she pauses, looking back down at him as though a thought has struck her —— and it has, for that first time she had left this way, he had told her not to go. She merely remembers back to that, wonders whether he might still want her to stay. But then she thinks the better of it and shakes her head ‘gainst it, playing her momentary cease of movement as a simple second-thought to fix his covering. Quietly, she reaches over him, flattening out a picky wrinkle, and then leans back again, finally standing once more.

“Sleep well.” Only then does she turn, trotting over to the chair and desk nearby to place the finished cup down. She settles herself down into the chair as well, making sure that her scabbard rests comfortably 'gainst the floor in a position where she might be able to grab it should some semblance of trouble come tearing down the door, before leaning back in the chair. She is intent on staying awake. Should she happen to fall asleep or catch herself drifting off, there’s no telling whether or not something might come to kill them both. At this rate, something just might, and she would rather keep her life ( and she would rather protect Asher Forrester, too ) than to see it cut short because of her. She has failed so many times already —— failed Renly, watched him die right in front of her without ever being able to stop it —— and she has failed Catelyn, simply by not returning in time. If the brave companions had not caught them, had not delayed their trip, if she had returned to King’s Landing in time to retrieve Sansa, if she had made it back to her lady in time… mayhaps she would still be alive. But they are dead. They are both dead because of her.

Tears threaten at her eyes, but she blinks them back, leaning forward and folding her arms on the table. she rests her cheek on them. A seemingly perpetual frown stays on her face even now, even as she stares forward. Somewhere in the mix, she’s made it her duty to protect him, to see him better before she returns to her journey. Somewhere, she has sworn to herself not to fail with that, not to see another DEAD because of her. She sighs into her arms; bored of the wall, she opts to stare at the inside of her eyelids instead, unaware of the sleep that already threatens her tired eyes. Somewhere, she has taken to keeping his bandages clean, his wounds cleaned, infections out. Somewhere, she has sworn…


	4. Chapter 4

Asher lied in a slumber that was as strangely comforting as it was unbalanced. There was no tossing and turning of his body or head. Nothing more than the faintest wisp of breath that merely echoed a yell or screech. Nothing to suggest, to prompt the idea that he was having a slumber described as restless, let alone nightmarish; that his mind had not yet been soothed by the secret slipping of poppy, washed down by milken honey. Multiple dreams that were all frothy, too muddled to be clearly understood, it was as if he were wandering through a dense fog.

In dreams time could shift, images changed too quickly, and the subconscious thinking of a fog brought him to the apex of a delusion he wanted no true part of.

It was as if he sat in tar. A body in the black substance, sticky to the skin and clammy. Except the tar like substance did not touch him, he could not feel the stickiness unless he dared to reach out for it, but something believed it would be sticky. A feeling of nakedness, although he was not certain that he was naked, as his eyes could only see a hand ghostly white and the substance. Many times before he had been naked, recalling the feeling well, and in the haze of recollection he concluded that he was alone and naked in a tar pit. It was a strange conclusion to stumble upon, mainly because he was not even aware if he had a body beyond the hand.

He reached out. He reached out in order to caress the tar, to test the purity of its nature, and it reached back to him. Recoiling within his dream, his breath quickened in reality as the only signal to panic. A moment of silence within a dream and once more he reached out to the tar, submerging his hand within it. It was not clammy but rather smooth, it was wet like water and not sticky as he had assumed. It was strange. As his hand went further into the blackened liquid his vision was not impaired. The consistency of the substance turned to that of wet ash and his mouth, if he even had a mouth in this bizarre dream, felt thickened and dry.

It was the brief memory of childhood. A boy who was stout and chubby of only four years. Clenched tightly in his little hand was something, the child squealing happily as they dodged a pair of large hands from capturing them. What the child held was ash. It was ash from ironwood, which the child shoved very quickly into his mouth. Then the large hands picked up the child and the memory vanished.

Awakening with confusion, his senses were dulled considerably, and his body ached. He felt utterly strange. In that moment Asher thought his body not to be his own, that he could not claim it while he laid underneath bed sheets against a bed too soft and empty. Lying in a state of acceptance and rejection, his breath felt far away and not of his own. He could make no correlation between each breath he took and the rising and falling of his chest beneath the sheets. There was the slightest wheeze in his breath that broke the masking of poppy. Hands clenched the sheet beneath him, folding the fabric methodically as he listened to the other set of breathing.

It was not Beskha, he knew that. No matter how his dream had gone, he could not awaken with the illusion that Beskha was still by his side. Where was she? Did she live? Of course she did.

Brienne could never be a substitute, for many reasons known and not. She was her own individual, and she did not deserve to be labeled as a simple replacement. She was her own. The thought brought a smile to his lips; it was the faintest twitch at the corners that Brienne could not see, not with the position she had taken before. Still on his back he brought a hand across his chest, the movement dulled, and he wondered why it was. “Brienne–” The words rasp from silenced screaming. “–Did you drug me?” His manner was joking and light, bringing a chuckle on dry lips.

Pushing himself into a sitting position, he stared at her form. His smile softened, staring for a moment longer than he should, expecting no true response. An untrained eye would believe she had fallen asleep, unable to respond, but Asher had spent many long years besides a woman who’d pretend to avoid. Questions, memories, him on occasion.

“Brienne…” Her name was the faintest whisper on his tongue, offering release and sanctity.


	5. Chapter 5

Her slumber is as light as any woman’s who has had to keep her rest confined ‘twixt trees. She has kept an eye out for much too long. As a child, she had rested as easily as any little girl’s, finding many nights undisturbed, unperturbed, and silent as could be. Rarely had she woken in those days, unless someone happened to come and wake her themselves. She had not been surrounded by danger on Tarth. She had been safe, unafraid, willing to keep her eyes shut for however long it had taken for her to fall asleep. But she is older now, and she has been through too much to sleep soundly during any night. Even at Renly’s camp, she had always kept an eye open, an ear up to the sky to listen for anything unnatural. Even at Renly’s camp, she had suffered those terrifying fears: fears that would gnaw on the inner lining of her stomach until she would sit up, surrounded by the snores of the men 'round he, and look 'round, just to make sure that nobody was watching her, waiting for her to fall asleep. She had always feared for that violence, yet none of it had come —- not truly, anyways. Not in her sleep.

Though sleep has her in its clutches, it takes her only a moment to be jolted out of it by the sound of Asher’s whisper. And jolted she is; she draws in a quick breath, muscles already locked for battle, already at the ready, blood already pumping hard through her chest to support whatever decision to fight that she might make. She wakes in an instant: the better quality of a warrior. Yet she is clumsy nonetheless: her arm leaps out without warning, happening to catch the bowl which had once been filled with the milk of the poppy that is now settled in Asher’s stomach. It slides off the table, slamming to the ground and scaring her all the more, but she cares little for it. Instead of paying any need to it right now, she instead twists herself 'round in her seat, looking over at the man, thinking, for that brief second that it takes for her to properly register everything, that he might be in trouble.

But he is not in trouble after all. T'was only his soft voice, calling what she remembers to be her name. Mayhaps an incorrect assumption, considering she had been sleeping lightly when he’d said it, yet it had woken her nonetheless. Yet the moment she realizes that he is in no danger after all, she lets out a short breath and cannot help but to smile in relief. For now, she says nothing, but turns back around, leaning to the side to grab the empty bowl from the floor and placing it back 'pon the table.

As she stands, she looks out a nearby window. Still somewhat dark, though there is a faint light peeking through. 'Tis early in the morning, though what time she cares not to check: she only cares that she see him, tend to whatever he needs. Rubbing her eyes, she moves over to the side of his bed again, sitting her weary, drowsy way on the edge of the bedding and letting out the softest hum. “Do you need something?” Her speech is slurred by sleep, which still has its heavy claws on her tongue and a few of her facilities: her mind especially. 'Tis not that she does not worry: only that she cannot think straight, even as one with adrenaline still pumping through her veins.

But she wakes up quickly, blinking her eyes open and letting them stay open for several seconds before blinking again. Her gaze runs over him, making sure that he is not bleeding or in need of anything. Everything seems natural to her eye, but 'tis good to make sure now. Only then does her eye make it back to him face —- she watches him there, letting out the softest of sighs. He is tired. She can see sleepiness still on his face, yet she is impressed that the poppy had not managed to outlast her own sleep. Usually, those drugged with it do not wake for quite a long while. She had dulled it with more honey; mayhaps t'was only that. 

Nonetheless, she finds it almost endearing that he is so tired. There is an unnatural calm to his expression not often there, and she finds her lip curling. “I thought you would sleep for longer.”

When he had pushed himself into a sitting position, the blanket had fallen from high up on his chest to pool around his abdomen; Asher did not mind having skin covered. In fact, he made a move to readjust the fabric, completely covering the discolored line along his flesh, protecting her eyes from the old, broken and hurriedly repaired seam along his body. She did not need to see what lay underneath skin and blood, his thumb hooking itself underneath the fabric. A nail pressed it’s cold self against his warm body, there was nothing but a shiver in response as there was barely any feeling. His mind was still dripping wet with sleep, sleep which would take some time to dry off; not as long as most men. No– he was a fighter. The body had fought drugs just as it had fought flesh. He stared at her, expression soft and seemingly lost of many years; it was almost as if he could slip back through time, and become the child that he never was.

“I’m afraid not–” He tried to find the correct string of words to say that wouldn’t give away everything else. He tried, it was not hard to do, because he had been searching and improvising for a very long time. “Unlike most, my body doesn’t comply to most drugs. Milk of the poppy included.” Was that enough to satisfy her? Perhaps it would only serve to create more questions for Brienne to ponder upon in that moment. The slightest whisper as to why, yet if she were to think where he had been before then the question was answered. Essos, an answer satisfying and not. He freed his thumb from the blankets folds, hands now resting on top of the bed at either side of him. There was a moment where Asher thought to lie back down, not a single motion to do so. What comfort could it bring? There was nothing of true comfort in a bed soft and empty.

“I thought you would have slept. Preferably in a bed, not a chair.” Hues that mimic the forest outside flashed to the chair that she had used to rest. There was hardly anything about that piece of furniture that earned it the title of bed, and a smile graced his lips at the memories that were brought back. Despite the unsettling pit in his stomach from the nightmare previous he could remember; uncomfortable chairs, leaning back slowly, a cup of ale in one hand almost empty, heavy lids trying desperately to stay open as she spoke to him. He was younger then, a man of only nine-and-ten, what was a freed pit-fighter doing with him? She should have left him then, she should have let him be some merchants bitch for stealing. No, despite her front she was always kind. She had taken him in at seven-and-ten, she had helped him. In four years they had become more than friends, more than lovers; there was no one alive that Asher could ever love just as he loved Beskha. “I doubt–”

“–I doubt I will be moving just yet.” Looking back to Brienne, there was obvious motion of moving over in the bed. It was nothing meant to be hidden, an action intended for her to notice, as one hand lightly patted the place he had made room for her. There was intention for her to lay down or at least sit on the bed, something that was far softer than a chair. A bed would not put a splinter in her ass, Asher knew from experience that a splinter in cheeks was not a fun experience; unless one found a well endowed whore who referred to their penis as ‘splinter’. “Sit and take a moment to rest. Even a soft-headed sellsword would know when to take a moment for themselves.” Perhaps it was unusually unfair to compare her to a soft-head. In truth it was an attempt at goading her into releasing the outstandingly tight code of never relaxing. Of never letting her guard down for just a moment, in fear a dagger would be thrust into their side. There is a throb from the fresh wound to his side. He knew she could not help it. Could he have let himself relax in a strange place? Like her, he feared. He was a man who lost countless days of sleep from paranoia that would and could never vanish.

A knowing that it was hard to let that fall even briefly, he still had inclination to try. She deserved not to be pushed down from her own attempts at staying up. Paranoia. Paranoia seemed a good name for the beast that scratched away at him, not entirely appropriate and not completely whole, but paranoia was a piece of the beast. Did she already have it there? For him it was always there to whisper into his ear, licking it’s teeth in delight. Was it him or it that pushed for killing? Kill for revenge, killing because it felt good and right to do so. To have blood splash against his flesh, steps falling easily into the formation of a sickening dance he loved, the music of the dance being the sounds of bones breaking and the screaming of men.

“Sit, and if you sit I’ll–” A yawn broke his sentence quickly, and he took no rush to finish his words. It was a long, sweet, and deep yawn. Tears welled up in the corner of his eyes, little droplets barely beginning to form, and he reached up to brush them using the back of his hand. They glistened for a moment against his hand, the faintest sparkle caught in the low, low light of what must have been a very early morning. Then they were gone. “I’ll share a story from Essos.” Give her more to convince her of rest, tongue running along the back of his teeth and he can taste the remains of milk, honey, and poppy. A thumb hooked itself at the blanket once more, pushing it aside to reveal a scar like that of a crescent moon.

If the crescent had been jagged, delivered by a hand shaking with fear over the knowledge of impending death, was created by a dull blade, and discolored. “I’ll share the story about this scar.” It took a lot to say those simple words. Perhaps, she could hear how much strength it took to say it. Bad memories surfaced so easily as the words fell from his tongue. There is a strange sentiment in that and strength.


	6. Chapter 6

Her gaze settles on the spot which Asher has now opened for her to sit, to settle, mayhaps to lie. She has no reason to distrust him. Yet she keeps staring. No reason, no reason. He has given her no reason to distrust him, yet it is a sort of pensive, curious nervousness which twists in her stomach like a knife now. She doesn’t know why she feels as though her insides are burning and churning at the very thought. Yet she does. She knows that it is not Asher who dredges up her nerves from the pits where she had once locked them up, but instead a habit of herself. Something has shoved itself down her throat, lodged its way into her chest, her very stomach, and manifested itself in her very mind until at last it has become ingrained in her, digging its claws into her until her body had known for certain that it would never let go of her, never be rid of the fear. Fear, fear. Fear that Vargo Hoat had given her. Fear that had begun the very moment the men had pulled her up, tugged her away from that tree and tried to hurt her, until that voice she had since loathed had pierced the air and forced them to stop. Twice had it happened, and then Vargo himself had come, cursed that terrible dress that she had been in, until her teeth had met skin, until she had ripped a bloody gash in the side of his head, until his hands had stopped trying to rip at her clothing, her throat, her bosomless chest, her legs, her mind, until he had come away yelling and cursing her, all lisp and spittle —— until she had learned to love the taste of blood and thank it. Until she had learned to swallow that all down, until she had finally stopped it for herself. 

Asher would never do that to her. Never. Never. He would never think of it, never make her do something ‘gainst her will. She will not have to learn to taste his blood, will never have to rip his ear off, will never have to harm him ( she does not want to harm him, nor see him harmed ). Just thinking about it makes her nauseous. So she nods, drawing in a breath and moving to the side of the bed. It already looks far more comfortable than the chair in which she had fallen asleep what seems like hours before. How long had they been asleep? Her neck and arms hurt from that uncomfortable rest, so it must have been longer than she’d thought, yet she cannot imagine having slept for so long.

Still, to her weary eyes, the bed looks far more comfortable than the seat. She pushes aside everything that tells her it’s a bad idea and settles herself on the edge of the bed. Her eyes wander over the furs, over to the man’s body, over to the scar on his side. It reminds her of her own, yet it is not on her own body —— mayhaps that causes her to feel more sympathetic towards him, towards the scar, towards everything about it, even if she doesn’t know the exact situation from which it had arisen. Nobody deserves scars, yet they are also a sign of strength, and this discoloration on his skin that she now looks at… that carries all the strength she needs to know about him. It looks jagged, uneven, and awful. “It must have been a pain for you…”

Then she gasps, clenches her teeth hard in her mouth. She hadn’t intended to let that slip. Of course it has been painful for him: just the way he had said those words had made it almost painfully obvious to her. She finds herself backtracking as quickly as she can, shaking her head and scooting herself onto the bed. “I ––––– that’s not… what i meant to say.” She means to have a reason for her apology, too, yet she can think of nothing, and so leaves him with that for the time being. Nothing will let it settle will for her. One breath —— she looks over towards him, light frown creasing her brows, and tries to smile at him, but it comes across as regretful, she thinks.

Moments later, she settles her mind, shoving away completely that unease that lurks in her mind. Asher is half-awake, and the poppy may be doing its work to pull him into sleep again; she will find little disquiet nor discomfort in lying next to him. Carefully, she pulls the fur-lined blanket up, slipping her legs 'neath them before pushing herself down enough to lie on her side. Her arms curl and press 'gainst her chest, bottom moving up so that she can pillow her head on her folded elbow. When she is comfortable, she looks back at his scar all over again, and that frown comes right back to her face. It disappears again just as quickly. “I’ve always wanted to hear a story from Essos.” From him, too, mayhaps; she knows little of his time there, and the mention of it makes her all too aware that she wants to know more. “You got that scar in Essos?” 

Just like many of his other scars, probably, yet she doesn’t want to remind him of all of them. She has her own scars —— those from her journey, those from the time before she had left Tarth, those from her training, when she was a child. She has many, but she suspects that his have stories behind them better than even hers, and she is itching to know them. With a soft hum, she looks back up at his face, pressing her cheek into her warm arm and allowing her eyes to shut for a moment. A wave of weariness makes them heavy, but she blinks them open again, determined not to lose herself to sleep while he tells his story.

The dip of the bed as her body laid atop it was reassuring. Not a muscle twitched in protest to the action, and he held himself stilled as she got herself comfortable. There was a distance kept between them on the bed, a stretch of bed and covers empty of limbs, as heartbeat skipped there was no longer a need to sit up. She lied beside him; she had chosen to lie beside him, and did not look to him with ill intent in her eyes or as if he held more intention than talk. Noticing eyes clouded with sleep, behind them sat both interest and patience waiting. Mayhaps not much of patience, as the words which fell from her tongue were both questioning and a signal for his story to be told. At least, that was what Asher believed to hear, the lingering eagerness in her voice to hear and be distracted from the wariness she had become accustomed to. He could not imagine and did not have the enticing thought currently to ask what else had caused her weariness. Caution, beyond the range of fighting and the taste of blood on tongue.

She reacted far differently than he when questioning. There seemed to be regret the instant she spoke, as if she had pricked her finger against a blade once thought dull. It was obedience in holding tongue. Experience with forced training of both body and mind. The smell cloying. How long? How long? A week, she had not come for him. A week, he had felt nothing but a haze far worse than any other and sluggishness. Anguish. A moment to recall the feeling of unwanted hands forcing, voices distorted yet instructing him what he would do. More of the cloying smell, every night finding himself lying next to a pile of other bodies sick from the smell. Too weak to move, too many for escape; he had resigned himself to that life. At the end of the week, she had come. By the Gods she had saved him! In awful moment of sluggish haze he had a creeping thought, scratching at the back of his mind to draw attention. Had she hated him? Was this his punishment for being him? There had never been an answer. His lips formed tightly to a frown, pulling away from the collection of memory and thought.

Pulling his gaze away from Brienne and back to his tattered flesh. Tattered and coarse. There were soft spots between the strips of scar tissue. Not an ounce of resentment for each, no tick of disgust, he wore the scars proudly. Fingers twitched, dancing along his skin, following the curve of the scar whose story was to be shared. Mayhaps one day he could wear the scar with pride like the others, he would not flinch away from the touch of a lover curious or a whore misplaced. He had to be honest with her. He could not hold his tongue, not while she shared bed with him. It was too comfortable of a moment, too familiar that his tongue seemed vexed into waggling until the morning light. “I do not dislike my scars, except this one. It is the only that bothers me, Brienne.” An exhausting experience placed to words, idly his fingers continued following the curve. “My scars have never bothered me, except this one. In fact, I quite like my scars. They make me even more handsome, you know?”

With hues like the forest, just like the forest they hide many things, shifted back to look at Brienne. It seemed there was the beginning of a word forming on his lips, the slight twitch to make a smile. A smile softened by poppy, holding his position of sitting up. He had not planned to fall back into sleep’s embrace; not before or after the story could finish. Rather he would let her rest with no body beside her. Still keeping close in case she awoke, he could not abandon her; she had not with him. “It is dangerous to be many things. Lord, Lady, whore, knight.” A slight sigh escaped his lips, parting his thoughts in the most necessary way. “A second son of only seven-and-ten in Essos? Rather dangerous, especially if you let the Highborn bit slip. My com– My sister and I had a fight, and she yelled it in a tavern for all to hear!”

He watched for Brienne’s reaction, curious in how she would take his words. Always harboring a storytellers tongue, it was something of which that could and should have been used for rallying troops or spirit. The entire duration of the talk he had kept his fingers trailing along the scar. Now he stopped, letting the hand fall to the empty space between them. It was a painful story recited with a smile and cheer in his voice. “Bed slavers from Yunkai got me. Not a pleasant experience, I couldn’t imagine being there for more than a week. I-I believe it was a week. Time is hard to keep when drugged. Which, they drugged me quite often.”

“At least now I’m able to please man or woman better than most. Seven sighs and sixteen seats of pleasure.” The chuckle that left his lips was littered heavy with a dry pride. A pride that confused him, being prideful of a skill that was learned in an unwanted situation. How they had ran their hands along his skin, holding tightly to the pieces of him needing manipulation. A shiver crawled along his spine, breath catching in his throat. The sweet smell of the room was there, fresh in his mind, just as their hands along his skin and tongues against the shell of his ear were. Twitching, fighting, he had been lethargic and unable to get away. Screaming when they slapped him. When he did not do what they wanted, they would hurt him. Drugs. More drugs until he complied. More and more. His body shook, closing his eyes and desperately trying to wish it all away. The room too sweet, cloying, beneath it the strong scent of earth. He had been just a boy. Now back to the forefront of reality, to their moment. He looked at Brienne, the expression on his face that of a boy long lost. It vanished as quickly as he spoke his next words.

“I was certain that she wouldn’t come for me, that I’d be some bed-slave. We barely knew each other, only two months together. She saved my ass from a merchant, I stole some armor from him. The armor that I have now, actually.” Four years he had that armor. Pain in his chest, something tightly balled there. He needed that armor now. Always feeling naked in other clothes. In fact, he thought that he would have preferred being naked than wearing Lord clothes. Though, he doubted Brienne would have appreciated complete nakedness as he talked and she listened. Tight and restricting clothing. His armor? He felt free, less vulnerable. There were times when the dog could come out, in the midst of a fight or argument with an unwanted, but he would risk that moment to live in his armor. Weapons at his side? He would never take that away from anyone cared about. None deserved to be without, save his enemies. He took a breath to soothe the pain in his chest, the sharp intake of cold air burning his throat. “Anyways, the bed slavers. A week of them was shit, and by the end of the week she came for me.”

“I can’t recall all of it. My mind was clouded, and every action seemed slow. She slaughtered them all, most of them anyways. I’m sure a few grabbed a couple of slaves and hauled ass. Who wouldn’t run? Beskha the Basilisk was coming to save one pretty little highborn.” Pretty little highborn. The name had been hissed into his ear by another. Not a slaver but a lover. A lover who died by his hand, decomposing in the land of fire. A lover who had pinned only for Asher’s reactions, his body. A lover who could not love. At night Asher tortured himself, branching on the idea that if there had been enough time, it could have been different. It was not often but there were nights where he let his mind chase that idea. The dead lover had left their mark on Asher’s skin. He would be forever remembered until Asher and those who had seen his body were decomposing. Never. “There was a slaver with me, didn’t want to kill me. I suppose he could have gotten a lot of coin from me. Held a dulled dagger to my stomach, dumbasses couldn’t even care for their weaponry.”

There was a snort. Judgement for those who had used him. Hands folded neatly across his abdomen, would she believe his story? It was the truth. What he recalled anyways. Moments of that time stuck out and others were buried underneath haze. Certainty that if he uncovered it all, the night terrors would grip his mind and never release its hold. Just as Rodrik and many, many other things did. “She came for me, she stared right at him. I like to think she told him to release me. Then he sliced me open, not a single thought to it. She killed him quickly. It was funny, I would have laughed. You should have seen the way he ran at her. Anger and pride swelling in his stomach. Anger for the death of his friends, pride in defending the merchandise.” Asher could easily die like that, prideful and angry. They both could. “I-I don’t recall much after that.”

Drugged, malnourished, wounded, and bleeding. Too weak help Beskha, too weak to even stand. She had tried fixing him, only able to do so much with a wound like that. She was no Maester, she had barely stopped his bleeding. Dragging, dragging. There were hours of dragging as he slipped in and out of consciousness. In one moment he was aware of the low hanging sun, and in the next moment the sun had vanished. How many hours? He did not know, Beskha did not know either. Holding his tongue, one piece of information sat heavy. Blinking, he looked at Brienne. The sting of tears in the corner of his eyes, blinking them away before they were noticed; he would not let them fall over a question.

“I-I asked her. I asked her if she hated me as she began dragging me away. She never answered me. That is why this scar bothers me unlike the others. Four years and she never answered me. Four years, I trust her more than any, but yet my mind still questions.”


	7. Chapter 7

His story almost breaks her heart, the way he tells it. The way he tells it, he sounds so broken. The way he tells it, the story glides off of his tongue like some magnificent carpet rolled ‘cross a hard marble floor, so that if a fall came it would be able to catch a body before it hit the floor and gained a bruise or a cut. The way he tells it to her reminds her of every single story flowing through her own mind, reminds her of her own sad tales that she does not want to remember, that she would rather push to the back of her mind for the rest of her life. if she could do that, she would. She would push them away until they were enveloped in darkness, never again to be retrieved. She does not wish to remember any of the things that she had gone through at the hands of the bloody mummers, for with them was when she had endured some of the worst times of her life.

The way he tells it makes her feels as though she wishes to curl into a little ball and go away inside herself, if only to escape the hyper-reality that the world is not a perfect place after all, and should be heeded with caution. She loathes the world for that. She loathes the world for being unfair to Asher, too, to make him have a tale so heartwrenching that it would be her hardened her wish to shrivel right where it was. She does not allow it to do so, of course. she wants to be here for Asher. And at least, if it does not scare her completely, it does make her want to stay closer to him. Somehow, she thinks that staying near to him will make her more supportive. in this world —— in the lands of Westeros, where there are too many dangers to count and the days pass by as though counting down those until one’s death —— to have someone else’s presence around is to have support. 

With a soft hum of empathy —— or mayhaps 'tis only sympathy, for she does not know any kind of scenario even properly close to Asher’s own, and she certainly does not know of whom he speaks, cannot connect to that, if she’s ever had a relationship like it —— she scoots herself a bit closer to him. She’s only half-aware of what she’s doing, half-asleep as much as anything else, yet she finds that she hardly cares about it, for she trusts him. He has revealed to her a part of his life that she believes he has never shown anyone else, and that in and of itself is enough to get her to reach out for him 'neath the covers. The top of her arm touches them, and she can feel that they are still warm from where he has lingered. No matter. Her lip curls anyway, and she takes the opportunity to lay her fingers 'pon his arm. that, too, is warm.

'Tis the only thing she needs to feel a second sense of calm. 'Round him, she doesn’t think she needs much to feel it, but it’s enough for her. With one short move of her head upward, she looks up at him, and realizes that he’s almost on the verge of tears. She had not heard it in his voice, but she can see them in his eyes, even if they remain unshed and simply stay to moisten his eyes. They are there —— she knows they are there. She has cried so many times in her life 'round water that reflection her eyes back to her: as a child, she had gone days in a row crying by the straits of tarth, sitting with her feet dipped in the ocean water, staring into them for so long that she had learned what her own eyes looked like when they were wet with tears. Those memories return now as she looks into Asher’s green eyes, and her heart suddenly feels as though it might be about to break for him. She would not doubt it; betrayal to the highest degree can break anyone.

“It’s… all right, Asher.”'Tis the first thing that she says, and even then, she does not know whether or not it will do anything to help him. Those are traditionally empty words: from everyone, they had always been empty words. What she truly wants to say is that she’s sorry: sorry for all that he has told her, sorry that he’d had to go through any of that, sorry that any of it had happened to him, sorry that she does not have anything meaningful with which she might comfort him. She is not meant to mother anyone. Her hands are coarse, her tough rough and desiring a sword instead of a hand to hold.

But she stays nonetheless, looking up at him, trying to read his face. “No one in the world could ever hate someone like you.” She would like to think that, anyways. Mayhaps 'tis not true —— likely it isn’t. She knows quite a few people on whose nerves Asher would get. She says it anyways, because she herself would like to believe it. He is a good man. He is a greater man than most: if he wasn’t, then she would not be here now, would not allow him to come so close to her. She does not like hearing that he was hurt so deeply, does not like hearing that he was able to be hurt like that in the first place, and in the back of her mind, she would like to think that, if she could, she would shoulder his entire burden herself. If she could, she would help him carry if, at least, or take the weight of the world from his shoulders, the weight bearing 'pon his mind, and mute it, shut it up, help lessen it. If she could, she would do that for him.

In a moment, she blinks, realizing that her lids are growing heavily. A breath in: she moves her hand from his arm, looks away from his face, looks at his scar instead with eyes half-shut. “I wish you hadn’t told me now.” Brienne has never been one to keep her straightforwardness from her mouth; on the contrary, she voices it as often as she can, for who else would listen, how else would she have things the way she wanted them, if she were not completely blatant in what she says? Yet, even in this, she speaks quietly. Her fingers move over, almost touch his wound, stop, as though hesitant about touching his skin. Continue on again, until the tip touches the lightened mark, and her brows furrow. “I wish you had not told me, because now i’ll never be able to forget it. ” Then a thought strikes her, and she almost chuckles for it. Mayhaps she will even dream about it ( her lids are dropping again; she tries to combat 'gainst that ). She dreams about every misfortune, after all —— why not this one, too?

“If it… were up to me,” Says she, with a voice weighed like sticky honey, “I would say she… didn’t hate you.” Nobody could ever hate him. she does not hate him, after all ( so nobody can ). Unease and wariness long since forgotten, the woman finally shuts her eyes, sighing softly, the briefest noise to come from the depths of her throat, like a whine for sleep —— or a whine for it to stop coming on to her. No, no… no, she does not give it permission yet. “But… but don’t cry…” She opens an eye —— it takes her all not to shut it again, but she manages to look back up at him, to check and see if his tears have finally spilled over, or if he had reigned them back in again. “Nobody hates you. Nobody hated you. Nobody will. I think.”

 

Her words were thick, sticky like the honey he swilled to chase away nightmares, and lacked the smoothness to make him hear. They were like a hollow whisper to him, there was no substance found, nothing that he could detect to be meaningful. It was not her fault, no, it was his fault for not believing that her words could ever be the truth. She was not his kin, he would not have believed the words even if she was his kin or they had fallen from betwixt his mother’s lips. He could not believe her. Words like the wind, while impossible to be truly ignored, he tried to ignore it. He did not know how long he could ignore until he was pushed aside, until dirt was whipped into his eyes and tears rolled over his cheeks. Her words were thick, heavy with sleep, and he decided it fine to cry. Never a boy to hate the act, crying was crying, he was never a man who saw it as a weakness. Though, he would try not to allow himself to spill tears in front of those that he despised.

She was not of his kin, but he felt comfortable enough to cry besides her. It was the faintest touch against the scar whose story had been told, that let his restraint be lost. Tears rolling across his sun-kissed cheeks, and moistening his beard. A type of silent crying, tears that threatened to spill for ages. Limpid, aquamarine tears rolling down his cheeks, and fingers raised to his beard to give a tug. Tugging as if it would let the tears to escape, to not let them collect in his facial hair. Shaking them free, trying to force them to stain the sheets, and not cling to his body as if they were a fearful child. He wanted the tears to slide away, just like the question that had danced on his tongue for years. “Sleep, Brienne.” Words spoken softly, he choked on them. A heavy feeling in his throat where the words had gotten lodged, he did not know if it was better to forcefully swallow them or to hack them up. “S-Sleep, Brienne. You need the rest.” Let me guard you, as you did for me.

It was not for her to decided if he was loved or hated. It was not her that could say that he would be loved or hated. It was not her words that he craved to hear, not her whispering of ‘You are not hated’ that his body burned to have. To beat the words into his head, to hear them from the correct lips. To have Beskha look him in the eye and speak those words with truthful confidence. It would bring him happiness, it would settle in his stomach a relief he longed to feel, and to finally be free of the pain. Reaching for her, he took hold of her hand, his grip was loose in case she did not want his touch. Asher could not blame her. To be careful and gentle, they were both so fragile. They were both glass giants. Squeezing her hand gently, finding that they were as coarse as his were, slowly running his thumb along her knuckle out of habit. Calloused like his, yet her hands were different and appealing. No one wished to hold his hands. Whores would complain when he touched them, nagging that he was too rough, and each touch of the night would then become calculated as he was fucked senseless. Her hands were nice, his were not. One man had said he enjoyed the feeling of their hands together, late in the darkness as they walked through the woods that Asher knew better. Belief had slipped it’s way into his head, but so did traces of doubt.

It was funny how easily doubt had slipped in that moment. As he held the other second-son’s hand, gentle squeezed as they continued walking, doubt had found its way into his head. A second son with soft, smooth hands who had liked his coarse, life taking hands. Doubt did not plague his mind as it did some, not in the fashion that it once had with Rodrik, Ethan or his father. Asher was a man of action, a man who had never let doubt control his actions. Even when it took hold of his mind, refusing to let his thoughts be as it whispered it’s secrets into his ear; he had taken action. For a third time he squeezed her hand, then released her.

Watching as she began slipping into sleep, just as he had done. He thought to join her in slumber, to lie down besides her form and stay safely beneath the covers. To share warmth, to have it envelop him and chase away the bitter cold of the North. He would have loved to be lulled back into the darkness, to have their limbs tangled together in the natural movements of sleep, and to later awaken with heavy lids blinking away the haze. To have themselves find that nothing had happened, and that the sun had risen accordingly, and it may have seemed that moments had passed but it had been hours. Yet, while she lied down and got herself comfortable in a bed that he saw as still too soft, he kept himself upright. Fingers played lightly with the sheets beneath them, eyes slid closed and he did not feel sleep creeping over him. He simply sat, thinking what to do. What he could do. A mind wandered back to the blood that had spilled, to those who were dead that should not have been dead. Rodrik, Royland, his mother. Each dead in order for him to live, to be a lord that should never have been a lord. A son who should have been better, who had wanted a father to see him as more than abrasive force.

Eyelids fluttered open, his gaze slipping back to Brienne. Face wet from the tears that had stopped spilling from his eyes. His smile soft, he was very happy to have another body besides him. To have another form that grounded him, pulled him away from the thoughts that declared him to be nothing but a monster. He was thankful for her. “Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

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> txghut.tumblr.com  
> oftarth.tumblr.com


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